Cookie Therapy
by hughville
Summary: With Christmas coming, Cameron indulges in a little cookie therapy.  House joins her.


**A/N: This is a one-shot written for a prompt over at hughvillefics on Live Journal.**

It's almost Christmas. We have a patient so I'm stuck in New Jersey and can't go home. I don't mind too much. I usually end up arguing with my dad anyway. Things have been strained between us since the fire that claimed the lives of my brother and sister. I think he blames himself for not being able to get them out. When he gets really angry, he reminds me how lucky I was that night. I had been at a friend's house. I know he blames my mom for forgetting to blow out that candle on the side table. I know she blames herself which is why she drinks so much. Thinking about all this is making me depressed. Glancing around the Diagnostics conference room, I see House at the whiteboard staring at the long list of symptoms. Chase is reading the patient file for the millionth time and Foreman is reading through a medical text. Our patient is stable so I take a deep breath and stand up.

"I'm going home," I announce as I move to grab my coat and bag. Before anyone can react, I am in the elevator.

Once I arrive home, arms laden with grocery bags, I feel a little better. I head to the kitchen and dump the bags on the counter. Then I go into my bedroom to change clothes. I put on an old faded t-shirt, ratty sweat pants and thick socks. Piling my hair on top of my head, I sigh. I'm beginning to feel better already.

Back in the kitchen, I unload all the supplies I bought. As I line them up on the counter, that familiar feeling of calm descends on me. I gather up my baking supplies. Crouching down, I pull out my pride and joy, my Kitchen Aid professional mixer. Placing it on the counter, I plug it in and turn the oven on to preheat it. I don't bother with a recipe card. I know this recipe by heart.

I measure the dry ingredients into one bowl, carefully sifting them to make sure they are combined and free of lumps. Then I measure the wet ingredients and blend them together. Reaching for the first bag of chocolate chips, I open it and breathe deeply. The rich scent wafts upwards and envelopes me. I measure some of the milk chocolate drops and then open the bag of bittersweet chocolate. More chocolate perfumes the air. I spoon in some flour to coat the chips and add them along with the other ingredients to the mixer's bowl. I take my time alternating dry ingredients and wet ingredients until the mixing bowl is filled with darkly speckled cookie dough.

I lightly spray the baking sheets with cooking spray and begin to spoon dollops of dough out. As I scrape the last remnants from the bowl, I realize I am completely relaxed. Sliding the trays into the oven, I set the timer and clean up the kitchen. As I'm putting the last bowl away, I hear a dull wooden banging against my front door. House.

I immediately tense up and toy with the thought of ignoring him. Before I can do anything, I hear my door open and then shut. Damn, this means he found my spare key. I make a mental note to find a better hiding place for it.

I hear the familiar tap of his cane as he makes his way to the kitchen.

"You left to bake cookies?" he asks leaning against the counter next to the sink. "You look like shit, by the way. You have for a few days now. What's going on? Because if you're sick, I need to know. I can't have you spreading your germs around and making the rest of us sick. And by us I mean me."

I fold my arms and stare at him defiantly. "Yes, thanks ever so much for noticing and no."

House heaves a deep dramatic sigh. "Oh, Jesus, you're pissy. You're always sarcastic and get that tight ass look when you're pissy."

"What do you want, House?" I ask as I flick on the oven light and peer in at the cookies. They are just beginning to brown and the smell of warm cookies intensifies.

"Were you not listening?" he asks. "What's going on? You never leave in the middle of the day. It's an anomaly and anomalies bug me."

"Why do you care?" I counter.

"Two words: dying patient. You're usually all over one of those like white on rice."

"The patient is stable and if anything came up Chase and Foreman are still there and you could have called me. So, again, why do you care?"

House leans his cane against the counter and bends down to look in at the cookies. "Are those chocolate chip cookies?" he questions looking over his shoulder at me.

I continue to stare at him.

"I'll take that glare as a yes," he says, straightening up and moving toward the refrigerator.

"Why do you care?" I ask again, enunciating each word with sharp precision.

He opens the refrigerator and begins to poke around inside. I can feel my blood beginning to boil. He emerges from the interior of the refrigerator with my jar of organic peanut butter which he opens and begins to eat with his fingers.

"You're my employee," he responds with a mouthful of peanut butter. "Don't all good bosses care about their employees?"

"Yes," I snap dragging my gaze away from the sight of his tongue lapping against his finger. "Good bosses do care about their employees. That doesn't explain why you're here, though."

I turn back to see House sucking peanut butter off his finger. Despite my anger, desire spirals through me making my fingertips tingle and my nipples harden.

Glancing down at my chest, he smirks. The oven timer dings and I whirl away from him to pull the trays of cookies out. I put them on racks to cool and then walk past House into the living room. He follows slowly, still scooping out peanut butter and licking it off his finger. My desire for him intensifies when he sits down on the couch and pulls me down beside him.

"What's going on?" he asks softly.

I feel my anger melt away. We are sitting side by side on the sofa and he is pressed up against me. I can feel the warmth radiating from him and smell the intoxicating scent of him mixed with peanut butter.

"I can't go home for Christmas and I don't feel bad about not being able to go. I haven't seen my parents in a couple years and I should feel badly about missing Christmas with them. I just don't."

"What about your brothers or sisters? You told me once you weren't an only child. They'll be there, won't they?"

I feel tears sting my eyes. "My brother and sister died in a fire when I was a child. So, no, they won't be there."

House leans forward to place the jar of peanut butter on the coffee table. Leaning back, he stares up at the ceiling.

"That explains a lot," he says.

I sit quietly. The scent of chocolate chip cookies floats on the air along with the scent of peanut butter and the distinctively seductive smell of House.

I slump back against the couch cushions. Pushing himself up, House grabs the jar of peanut butter and limps into the kitchen. I can hear him moving around and dishes rattling. He returns carefully carrying two glasses of milk with a plate of cookies balanced on one of the glasses.

"Here," he says as he places the glasses and plate on the coffee table. "Cookie therapy. Works every time." He offers me a cookie and one of the glasses of milk. I take them and watch as he grabs the other glass and a cookie. Turning to me, he holds up his glass.

"To our fucked up lives," he grins, tapping his glass against mine. "Thank God for homemade chocolate chip cookies."

I nod and take a bite out of my cookie. Next to me, House lets out a moan of pleasure.

"Good God, woman," he groans. "You've been holding out on me." He devours his cookie and then snatches mine out of my hand. He eats it in record time.

"Hey!" I protest. "I barely got to taste mine."

He stares at me for a moment and then leans in to me. My breath catches in my throat and my mouth opens slightly. His lips cover mine and his tongue slips into my mouth. I can taste the peanut butter and the cookies he's eaten. He tongue sweeps my mouth languidly sliding against mine. The tastes of chocolate chip cookies, peanut butter and House are insanely erotic. The kiss is slow and thorough. When he finally pulls back with a gentle nibble at the corner of my mouth, I no longer care about not going home or anything else for that matter.

"Peanut butter," I murmur.

He looks at me in confusion.

"I should add peanut butter to the cookies next time," I tell him.

He laughs softly. We're silent a few minutes more.

"You don't have to spend Christmas alone, you know," he says softly, staring at a spot over my right shoulder. "You could come over to my place, eat Chinese takeout and watch bad Christmas movies."

I smile. "Like a date?" I ask.

His eyes lock with mine. "Like a date."

**The End**


End file.
